


A Study in Plaid

by Revenna



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, high grade literature, not gonna lie theres probably gonna be smut, oh god what have i gotten myself into, ships heavily incorporated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:36:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenna/pseuds/Revenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a rainy afternoon when Dean got the call from across the world asking his help on a case that seems to be driving the infamous Sherlock Holmes out of his half-sanity. He'd like with all of his heart to refuse, but by Sam's insistence, he eventually agrees to board the plane. When they get to London, it's all bad attitudes and swearing, but if they're going to stop the murders outside, they've got to stop wanting to kill each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The World's Only Consulting Dickhead

It was late afternoon when Dean got the call.

The bedside table buzzed muffledly beneath his archaic little flip-phone. Sam had tried to talk him into upgrading, but honestly, smartphones just made tracing calls way too easy. He flicked his thumb to open it, and held it up to his ear with a greeting on the tip of his tongue. Dean never really had a reason to check caller ID; this time, he wished he had found one. 

"Good day, Mister Winchester- or, should I say good afternoon?" The voice on the other end had a distinctive British accent, and a deep, arrogant sort of drawl to it. There was no question as to who it belonged to.

Dean's first thought was to snap the phone shut, break it, and change all of his contact information, but he thought the better of it. Knowing this guy, he'd just find another way to get a hold of his new number. Before he had the time to decide whether or not to hang up, Sherlock spoke up again.

"I know you're there, Dean."

"What do you want," he growled irritably, fingers tensing.

"There's a case that I believe suits your area of expertise, and unfortunately, I found no one on my side of the globe with such... 'experience.' I would pay for the tickets, of course."

The way he said "experience" was so disdainful, Dean could almost picture the air quotes.

"You wouldn't know our 'expertise" if it bit you in the ass," Winchester pointed out, narrowing his eyes at the wall. "I'm not a goddamn neighborhood watchman."

"If I thought you were, I wouldn't have bothered calling. When can you be in London?"

"What makes you think I'm going?" Once again, Dean regretted his reply.

A strange voice asked a question somewhere in the background, but it was drowned out by Sherlock as he said, a smirk in his voice, "Samuel."

Dean pursed his lips, and an exasperated groan begged to be voiced.

"No. Do it yourself."

"Dean-"

He closed the phone pointedly, and smacked it onto the nightstand, tickled by his own pettiness. The soft, white noise of rain filled the hotel room for the next ten minutes until it was interrupted by the purr of the Impala. Sam had been allowed to drive it exclusively because Dean didn't want to go anywhere, but they needed groceries.

Sam tapped the door open with the toe of his shoe and shuffled in, shivering. He set the meager little bag on the ground and threw his coat onto the nearby chair, huffing.

"Too cold," he complained, taking a seat on the rim of the bed. "I miss summer."

"Summer's too hot," Dean countered, waving his hands animatedly as the chill hit him. "Well, shut the door!"

"See? Too cold." Sam said, but obeyed. 

Dean's phone buzzed again, but he had learned his lesson. He just shot a glance at the caller ID before sneering and hanging up.

"I owe a guy," he said as Sam looked at him quizzically,"The worst type of guy."

"Calling for a job? And you turned him down? Damn, Dean," Sam remarked, and scrubbed the rain out of his hair over the sink. "Where's this guy at?"

Dean hesitated. "London."

Sam lit up like a firework. "And you said no?!"

"Yeah."

It was then that he turned truly upset. "Dean, it's a chance to work a case in London. How could you say no to that?"

"I told you, he's a douche!"

"Dean, I don't care if I'm on my deathbed, if we have the chance to go to London, I, at least, am going to London. I would deal with the biggest douche on the planet for that kind of privilege!"

Dean cocked an eyebrow in a mischievous manner. "The biggest? Like, the absolute biggest douche that has ever walked the earth _?_ "

"Yeah!" Sam seemed to absolutely glow at the prospect of going to London to work a case, and he sat up a bit the second Dean showed the first sign of budging on the subject. Dean just flashed his palms at him and picked the phone up. 

"I'm not paying for anything."

(*)

Sherlock tapped the end button on his cell absent-mindedly, his left hand supporting his head as he stared at the woodwork of the floors. He ran over the crime scenes again in his head, kneading his chin with his knuckles as he tried to piece them together. Completely inexplicable, save by the Winchester-method of following some godforsaken set of religious text. 

"Well?" John said, completely snapping Sherlock's train of thought. He sat back in his chair and planted two fingers on his temple with a sigh.

"Sorry, what?"

John's eyebrows raised a bit as they usually did when he was being ignored. "I asked who you were talking to."

At this comment, Sherlock's eyes trailed back to his phone in his right hand, fingers rolling thoughtfully over the sides as a knowing smirk played at his lips.

"An old acquaintance."

John scoffed as if the notion were ridiculous, and Sherlock had to mentally prepare himself for what he expected to be an ignorant comment- and was proven to rightly have done so.

"Who on earth could help in these cases? A consulting ghost buster?"

"You could call him that."

John's brow dropped now, and his eyes squinted as if trying to read what he was talking about, but Sherlock's grin only spread a bit wider as he let a soft chuckle slip. After a few seconds of intense thought, John eventually just leaned back onto the wall and palmed the side of his face, clearly having given up trying to get any information on the particular topic.

"Well, is he coming? He seems kind of... hostile."

Sherlock tore his gaze from the floor to look John in the eye, his expression unfaltering as he said, "Does that surprise you?"

John huffed, "Ah- no. But are they coming, or not?"

Sherlock turned back to the floorboards with a soft grunt of acknowledgement. "Yes."

"But he hung up on you?"

"Yes. But he'll call back."

"What makes you so sure?"

Sherlock rolled the phone in his hand. "His brother is a true lover of Europe."

John tilted his head, and watched the device in contemplation. "... Sherlock."

"Hmm."

"How far away are these people?"

Sherlock turned to smirk at him knowingly. "That would depend on which state they're investigating at the moment."

"... Americans?"

"Yes." John gave him a skeptical look, but Sherlock slowly pulled his gaze towards the window. "It's too bad they'll have to fly."

(*)

Sam rubbed his thumbs appreciatively over the sleek steering wheel of the impala, tempted to browse music, but knowing better than to touch the radio- especially with him in his current state.

At first, Dean had been stubborn over his rights to drive to the airport, but after getting fifteen minutes onto the highway and nearly hurling them over the median, he'd finally agreed to let Sam take the wheel. He sat in the passenger seat now, staring out the window like a dog being dragged to the vet. It was hard not to laugh at him, but that seemed a little cruel, so Sam just tried out a bit of encouragement.

"You know we're not driving into the pits of hell." He refrained from adding 'again.' "It won't kill you."

Dean grimaced in response, and Sam knew he was also unpleasantly reminded of their underground detours. "You don't know that," he spat back, adjusting himself in his seat.

"It's pretty unlikely, Dean."

"But not impossible," he insisted. Sam finally gave up and shook his head, reaching for the dial on the radio, only to have his hand promptly batted away. "Hands off."

Sam shooed him away, saying in his defense, "I was just going to turn up the volume." He did so only a few notches, but enough to make a difference in the deafening white noise of the highway. "Grumpy ass," Sam grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he cooed.

Dean shot him a cold look, then reclined his seat and dropped with a muffled "Oomph." Sam finally let a quick chuckle slip, eliciting no response except for a prompt middle finger in his face. Sam extended an arm slowly towards the dial once he was certain his brother was asleep, but drew back after a grumbled "Don't touch." He showed his palms in a sign of submission, then just dropped them back to the steering wheel with a resentful sigh. It was lucky it wasn't too far a drive to the nearest airport- only another forty-five minutes.

The rest of the ride passed quickly and was relatively uneventful, but by the time they pulled into the airport, Sam's eyes were getting heavy and his legs had started to fall asleep. He was going to have to wake Dean up, but he couldn't imagine how he would get him out of the car... 

He reached for the volume and quickly twisted the dial. Dean jerked awake, and smacked his head against the roof, and Sam tried to make a run for it, hurling himself out of the car in the middle of his laughter.

He stood up a bit straighter and turned to look over his shoulder for Dean, but found that the passenger side was empty. He was dumbfounded for only a split second before he realized that there was a wild older brother hurtling over the hood of the impala with a rolled up newspaper. Sam let out a startled laugh and scrambled away towards the trunk, but not fast enough. Dean backed him against the car and smacked him repetitively with his makeshift weapon, Sam laughing the entire time until he slumped to the ground and Dean strutted away in victory. 

"Don't touch my radio."

Sam let one more laugh slip before getting to his feet to turn off the car, then scooped up his fair share of luggage.

"What about the dent in the car roof?"

Dean glanced back, mortified at the idea of a dent in the Impala until he realized what Sam meant. He waved his hand in dismissal with a scoff and too much swagger to be taken to heart.

(*)

The sound of sirens created a harmonious dissonance outside the apartment as John set the kettle and leaned on the wall in the corner of the room, hands folded before his chest in uneasiness of the many detectives bustling about his flat. They weren't doing anyone any good, just fumbling around like toddlers trying to solve a puzzle. 

 

Earlier that morning, he and Sherlock had been cleaning everything in the flat- entirely by John's insistence- when Anderson had called with news of yet another incident. Sherlock dropped his feather duster, dragged his assistant out of the apartment building, threw him into the cab, and triumphantly crossed his legs at the prospect of not having to clean.

Meanwhile, John sat on the opposite side, his left hand splayed on his chest from habit of checking his pulse and the other fumbling to shove the seat belt into the clamp. Once it clicked shut, he looked up to the consulting detective that sat two seats from him looking as though he won the lottery. John frowned slightly.

"You know, we still have to clean when we get back," he reminded him, concerned that Sherlock would get caught up in the case.

Sherlock, however, just grunted in disapproval and flicked his hand, returning once again to the signature Holmes-prayer position. John rolled his eyes and decided to humor himself and investigate the cabby; unfortunately all he could deduce was that he was happily married and had been at the job for a long time- probably around twenty years.

After a relatively quiet, peaceful ride filled with occasional thoughtful murmurs, the car pulled to a stop. Sherlock hurled himself out of the vehicle before it was even completely still, leaving John to pay the driver with a hasty apology and a bundle of bills stuffed into his hand before making a mad dash to catch up.

As soon as John stepped over the threshold and into the room, he felt like he was getting into something very personal.

It was a cozy little flat, save the blood splatters and caution tape. The walls were baby blue, the furniture was all milk-colored with rose print, and the lighting was golden, as if the person who lived there was too frail to even change a light bulb. Before John saw the gore, he had been tempted to wipe his feet on the welcome mat before going any further. And yet, even though this was a perfectly normal flat with the familiar sense of cautious interest that came with most crime scenes, there was something new about this one. Maybe it was the tray of cookies on the counter from an unmarked sender or the way the older woman lay, cookie in one hand, and a small knit bag in the other. There was something eerie about the atmosphere of the room that was a little more... psyche than other crime scenes.

Sergeant Donovan had been standing, scratching notes down onto a tablet when she spotted them coming in, and they were immediately greeted with the I'd-rather-you-were-the-one-in-the-body-bag look she always saved for Sherlock. He ignored her, as was the norm, and spent a good thirty seconds observing the body before pestering her with questions. Some were serious, but John suspected a lot of them were just Sherlock's own way of mocking her, because of how simple they seemed to him.

Normally, John would have been paying close enough attention to at least give a brief summary, but something about the small knit bag she was holding was extremely intriguing. He knelt down, extending a hand as though he were about to handle a ticking bomb, and picked it up, holding it gently between his thumb and index. An odd, clean sort of scent came from it. He held it up to his nose, and- yes, a toddler could have picked out the stale aroma of herbs wafting from the little sack. Taking a quick glance up at Sherlock to see if he was paying attention, he tucked it into his coat pocket, then stood back up.

It seemed as though he'd caught the two at the end of their conversation, because at the moment, Donovan was strutting off with a particularly arrogant gait with Sherlock glaring after her in total, uncensored spite.

"What do you think of it?" He prompted curiously, mildly concerned that he hadn't heard anything from Sherlock yet. The consulting detective simply stayed silent for a moment before whisking himself out of the apartment, the air behind him crackling with tension. John follow, nearly tripping on the unfortunate former resident of the flat in his haste to keep up. When he got out of the door, it seemed he had done so just on time, for the tip of Sherlock's scarf had just vanished around the corner of the hall. He picked up his pace to a quick jog, now worried about his flatmate more than the crime scene.

By the time he had caught up with Sherlock, John was panting, and thoroughly begrudged.

"What? Am I missing something?" He pestered, exasperated with the lack of explanation. All he got in response was a somewhat pointed look, and a good bit more walking to be done. John had every right to think Sherlock was waiting to hail a cab, but every one that passed was ignored. Just as he prepared to ask where they were going, however, he realized he'd lost track of Sherlock. Again. He planted a hand on his forehead with a sigh, finally making the decision to hail one himself.

He flopped into the back seat and murmured an instinctual "221 Baker Street" before leaning back to stare out of the window, brewing over how he would be cleaning the apartment alone tonight.


	2. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to everyone who's expecting me to update- I can only get in so much writing time being banned from the computer all days but Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Wednesday, and me being the lazy self I am I hardly write even then, so the chapters I write may be short, but I'll try to get them in at least monthly. If the series carries on into Summer, they can be expected to be released about every two weeks assuming I don't get into the habit of ignoring it. Three cheers for midnight motivation that got me to finish this one!  
> Edit:   
> Yikes, this is an old one. I forgot I had it lying around. I'll be editing the chapters that already exist first, cus I don't like them anymore, but an update could be on its way possibly. If you've read the existing chapters, I encourage you to redo so, as dialogue and characterization has changed a bit. :)

Dean adjusted his seat fitfully, shuffling around and trying not to think about the situation he was in. Sherlock had been so compassionate as to get them first class seats, which granted, was a lot better than flying coach, but it was still flying, and still deadly.

Dean glanced down at his watch, rubbing clammy thumbs together and trying to ignore the initial urge to look out the window and see how close they were to the airport. Fifteen minutes was taking a lifetime on this awful vehicle. Sam was a dirty, sneaky little liar. 

"'We're not going back to hell _Dean_ ,'" Dean mocked, sneering at his brother, who gladly took the window seat. "'It's not gonna kill you,  _Dean.'_ " 

"Do I really sound like that?" Sam asked jokingly, pretending to be offended. Dean scoffed at him and rubbed his eyes before checking his watch again. Thirteen minutes.

Despite his worries, the plane landed easily, and soon enough, they were allowed to leave. As soon as the announcement was made, Dean was out of his seat and shoving his way down the aisle, leaving Sam to gather all of the carry-on and distribute apologies to the other passengers. He hustled down the stairs and glanced around, finding his brother relatively quickly. Dean was a few yards away from the runway, kneeling on the pavement and clearly trying not to puke. Again. Sam sighed to himself and pressed the heel of his hand into his temple. He, himself, had managed to pick up a minor headache from the seemingly endless trip, but it was clearly nothing compared to what Dean had gone through. Sam had begun to feel guilty the moment they took off for talking him into it.

He jogged up hurriedly, dropping a few bags so he'd have a free hand to grab Dean by the collar and haul him to his feet.

"You alright?" he asked tentatively, grabbing Dean's arm to steady him. Dean just swatted him away a bit clumsily and swiped up the few bags Sam had dropped.

"Doin' great,"he responded, and turned around to speed-walk to the building. Sam followed, still gladly toting most of the luggage. It would have been a good idea to try and sleep on the plane to avoid jet lag, but at least they were back on the ground.

(*)

 

John fell backwards onto the bed with an exhausted huff. He would have loved to be in bed hours ago, but it took a long time to decide exactly how many of the people Sherlock had invited over were helpful, and just as long to get rid of those who weren't. From all that help, he would have loved to have found out something new to tell Sherlock about, but nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had sat on his laptop searching everything from causes of tree limb breakage to elderly joint issues for over 7 hours, having gotten home at 6, and now it was one in the morning, and he had nothing to go on and no smart-mouthed consulting detective sitting on the couch to talk to.

Just as he was about to let himself pass out on the spot, shoes on and everything, the obnoxious clatter of the doorknob jerked him back into consciousness. John slid slowly off of the bed, hand clasped over his chest in the brief anxiety of the thought of an intruder. He was exhausted, and most definitely not in the mood for any sort of life threatening confrontation with some psychotic assassin trying to keep people off of the case.  His shoes off and pistol in hand, he slunk down the staircase, the negligent racket going on evoking his full curiosity. Pots and pans were seemingly being tossed about without a second thought of who they may awaken, and as John pressed his back to the wall and peered into the living room, he noticed that the coffee table was off-center as if someone had kicked the leg. A shaky breath was taken in an attempt to slow his heart rate, and then he dared lean out further, gun raised. But to his surprise, who he found in the kitchen was no intruder.

Sherlock stood somewhat crookedly in front of one of the cupboards, right hand planted on the counter as if it was steadying him, though he was searching one of the lower shelves that was easily reached. John, meanwhile, stood looking quizzical in the threshold.

"Sherlock," He barked, mildly surprised himself to have his flat mate jump and whirl around on him as if he'd sneaked up on him, while in truth, John had been standing in only the corner of his vision. " What are you doing?"

The darker-haired man squinted at him for a moment or two, then answered with a kind of slurry,"Making coffee."

John narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to deny to himself that he'd seen Sherlock like this before once. He tried to relax a bit, but still chose his words carefully when he tried to get some information. "Why do you need coffee?"

"I don't," Sherlock snapped at him, hands clumsily fumbling with the lid on the brewer.

"Then why are you making it?"

"Because I want coffee."

John rocked back on his heels several times as a silence formed between them, thickening the air like fog until he broke it again. "Sherlock, are you... are you okay?"

At this, the detective turned to glare at him, eyes bloodshot and accusing. "I... am _perfectly_... fine."

"Sherlock-"

"Do I need to prove it?" He snarled savagely, whirling on his heels in a manner that could have come off as aggressive if he hadn't been forced to grab the counter top to keep from falling.

"No, Sherlo-"

"Below your eyes is dark, meaning that you've been up a long while, but your coordination suggests a good bit of activity. Your shoes are off, which means you were probably planning on going to bed before I got home, and when I first arrived, you suspected burglary or otherwise another threat, and..." He trailed off, staring at John incredulously, as though he'd insulted him in some unspeakable way. John returned his look with a more concerned, confused expression. At this point, something seemed to break, and Sherlock rushed past his flatmate, bumping his shoulder on his way to his bedroom, and stumbling frequently along the way, looking like a toddler freshly woken from a nightmare.

John stared after him, head lowered and a chill gripping him. As the apartment trembled at the hardly-muffled slam of the door, he sighed, deciding to go to bed. Though it was doubtful he would be falling asleep any time soon, he knew he couldn't do anything when he was tired to the bone and Sherlock smelled so heavily of alcohol that the crisp scent still hung in the air where he'd stood. One more glance towards Sherlock's room, and then he started back up the stairs, head shaking in a mixture of worry and exhaustion.

 

(*)

 

 

The cab swiveled dangerously around the turn, scarcely missing a pack of chittering young adults that barked out drunken threats at the driver, who in turn, flashed them crude hand gestures from behind the wheel. They drove a short distance down Baker street before pulling up next to a small inn that was squished between two restaurants. Dean got out of the car and popped the trunk, grabbing his fair share of luggage before half-strutting, half-staggering into the lobby. Sam, however, stayed behind. After paying the driver, he leaned against the wall of the building to take in the sights of 3 AM London. He guessed it probably didn't look nearly as magnificent to those that lived there, but to him, someone who jumped through small towns in America, and had seen a skyscraper up close and personally about once in his entire life, it was like transcending to his own personal heaven.

He didn't have long to admire it, however, before he was called inside by Dean, who had courteously gotten them a room with a balcony. Sam nodded to him and picked up the remainder of the bags, staring at the dizzying sky for a few more seconds before following him inside and into the elevator. The second he was in, he dropped the bags and went for the buttons, only to have his hand shoved out of the way by Dean. The two of them fought over the right to control the elevator until Dean finally smacked the circle labeled "4", leaving Sam to glare at him like he was being childish, even though he had been just as determined to press the button.

The elevator door slid shut, blocking out the quizzical face of the lady who stood behind the counter.  The old thing was wallpapered on the inside with a pale striped yellow, and white molding that gave the impression of a small, homey bedroom, though it wasn't much bigger than your average bathroom. Once it pulled to a stop, and the doors were ajar again, Sam lead the way out, appreciating the old, country-sort of feel that the place had, with lamps being set next to doorways rather than fluorescent lights that buzzed in rows along the ceiling. He walked sluggishly to their room, thankfully only three or four doors down, and slid the card through the slot.

There were two small beds, and an old-looking television that was set up next to the doorway to a small bathroom. The sliding door to the balcony was set at the end of the room, red curtains drawn across to filter light for the convenience of late sleepers. Sam flung his bags between the beds, causing a clatter of protest from the lamp set on the nightstand, then flopped over on the bed furthest from the door.

The last thing he saw before passing out was Dean sprawled on the other bed, hogging the remote, and then he fell asleep.


	3. The Loony and The Mental

Dean walked out of the hotel sluggishly, squinting into the sunlight that greeted him outside. Sam was waiting there, leg shaking impatiently for Dean to hurry up. He was exhausted from having stayed up most of the night exploring British television shows, but he could still walk. At least, that's what he told himself as he nearly swayed into a street lamp for the third time. They wandered down Baker Street at a smooth pace, Dean lingering as long as he could bare it, to let Sam take in the sights.

Within the hour, they found the building they were looking for. A neat little window looked in on a cozy cafe of sorts, and next to it, a door, adorned in gold lettering-"221"- with a knocker bolted just below it. His mind was now beginning to cloud with doubt, and Dean began to wonder what made him think it was a good idea to come here in the first place. They had already made it this far and Sam was approaching the door, so he sucked up his concern and got out to join him on the doorstep. Dean reached forward, and, taking a deep breath, opened the door to lead the way up the stairs. 

What awaited him inside the flat was thoroughly concerning. A short, blonde man was the one to answer the door, looking rather startled to have two scraggly Americans on his doorstep.  Dean glanced over at Sam, who met him with an expression of equal confusion, before he stumbled into a greeting.

"I, uh... Must have the wrong building... " He said, trying not to swear aloud in his irritation with Sherlock," Do you know where I can find Mister Sherlock Holmes?" The man at the door shook his head as if shaking a thought.

"Yes, of course. You've come to the right place," he said, stepping to the side to let the two inside. Dean led the way in, not bothering to take his shoes off, and took a seat on the couch. Sam sat next to him, compressing himself and studying the apartment with infinite skepticism. A few silent moments passed of their host poking around absent-mindedly, and then Dean began to find it difficult to stay silent.

"So who are you?" The man looked up from whatever he was doing and made his way to the couch.

"Oh, right, sorry. Mr. John Watson," He introduced, extending a hand to first Dean, then Sam, both of whom shook it.

"Dean Winchester, and my brother, Sam."

"Oh, I know who you two are. Sherlock told me you'd be coming in today."

"Oh, Yeah. But uhm... who... are you two..." Dean fumbled for words that would soften the blow of the question he was about to ask before trying to continue, but he was spared when John realized what he was asking.

"Ahh. That whole... situation. I'm just a friend."

There were times when Dean could control his facial expression, and there were times that he could not. His jaw dropped obviously as he tried to comprehend what he said. The tone of his voice was completely serious, but the idea of Sherlock Holmes forming a functional relationship with anyone was a bit difficult for him to wrap his head around. Sam cleared his throat casually in attempt to remind everyone that he was still in the room, and, nonetheless, still in the dark on the whole issue.

 

(*)

 

John let out an incredulous laugh at Dean's face when he broke the news that Sherlock was capable of friendship, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"So how do you think you can help out here?" A quick glance shared between the two brothers summoned a bit of suspicion with John, but he had no time to ask before he got his answer.

"Let's just say we specialize in these kinds of accidents."

"Do you honestly think they're accidents?" He fired back, raising an eyebrow doubtfully. Dean clasped his hands together and sighed.

"Until more evidence arises, as far as we're concerned, yeah, they're accidents." John nodded, but was saved an uncomfortable silence by Sherlock, who barged through the front door with a tad more force than was necessary.

"John, have you got any leads yet?" John shook his head, motioning his hand at the Winchesters that sat, scrappy-looking and traveled, on the couch.

"No, I was interrupted. We have visitors." Sam was on his feet as soon as he had realized who had just walked in, and he extended a hand.

"Sam Winchester," He began to say, but Sherlock simply breezed past him.

"Yes, I know who you are." After the Winchester sat back down on the couch, looking mildly crushed, much to the exasperation of John and the agitation of Dean, Sherlock began his run down of his latest leads.

"According to everything at the crime scene, she just choked to death, but it was just so... so _clean_ for something like that. Whoever had it out for the victim certainly covered their tracks well. There was nothing left at the crime scene to suggest she was marked for assassination, but everything I could find, down to the motives, says she is a candidate for jealousy among her peers. Even if there were traces of poison anywhere, there is not a single person there who had a motive, or as a matter of fact, any way to get poison. The only thing I've found is that the man who's wife died, the one that went missing, is the son of someone in her Bingo class."Sherlock spun around on his heel and faced the class, hands behind his back. "But she's totally clean. There's nothing. No traces of communication with anyone outside of Bingo class. 

John thumbed the small bundle of herbs he had taken from the apartment, making a quick decision to pull it out. He took it out of his pocket and held it out in front of himself, holding it wearily by the string. Immediately, both of the brothers' faces changed to surprise, though neither said anything until Sherlock snatched it out of John's hands and shoved it into Dean's face.

"You're trained in things like this. What would you diagnose this as?"

Dean, having drawn his face away from the knit sack and scrambled away from it, stood up, backing towards the window as if it contained explosives- which, John reflected, was possible, and eyed it with suspicion. Dean paused for a few seconds, then prepared to say something, but Sam, who had scooted away from it as well, spoke first.

"It's a hex bag," he announced," probably used by a witch to cause misfortune to whoever it's planted on."

"That would explain a lot," John muttered sarcastically, attracting a glare from Dean.

"Right," said Sherlock," Then we've got a very strange cult on our hands." John took note of Dean as he looked at Sam, both brothers sharing a face of exasperation.

Sherlock dismissed himself without warning, and headed into the kitchen, leaving John alone once again with the Winchesters. Another couple seconds of silence passed between the three of them before he spoke again. "You think it was something different? Something maybe less orthodox than a cult?"

Sam sighed audibly. John chose to ignore this for his own sake. "Would you believe us if we said otherwise?"

John pondered on it for a moment. "Probably not," he decided, "but humor me."

This seemed to brighten Sam's attitude towards him, even just a small bit. "Like I said to Sherlock, what you had was a hex bag. It's something that someone who practices witchcraft plants in someone's home to bring misfortune. Most of the time, fatal misfortune."

"Why would someone do that?"

"Jealousy, revenge, convenience- the same reason anyone kills. The only difference is, no one suspects magic because no one believes in it," Dean answered, twiddling a pen that he had fished from his breast pocket. John bobbed his head.

"You were right. I don't believe you."

Dean grinned."How about we make it interesting?"

"Dean, no," said Sam, shaking his head in disapproval. Dean, however, simply disregarded him, drawing his wallet out. "Twenty bucks says it's a witch."

"Are you really that confident?" John said with a laugh.

Dean just waved the bill, tilting his head cockily.

"Alright then," John said,"you're on."

Sam rolled his eyes and pressed the tips of his fingers into his forehead, while Dean laughed and leaned back into the couch.

Good bet, John decided.


	4. Magic is a Fancy Way of Lying

Dean stood solemnly atop the balcony, elbows supporting him against the black railing limply as he palmed the side of his stubbly face puzzledly. As much as he so loved to sleep in, he'd arrived at Baker Street early after a long morning spent tossing in bed. He'd woken up at probably 4 o'clock, and tossed and turned in the strange sheets until he'd finally found himself unable to bear it, and took a hike over to what he considered to be second-hell. The air was cold and damp, and it dewed on the side of the building, sleeking down everything he touched and fogging the streets of London to the point that he'd stopped trying to make out the building across the street. He sat there calmly for a long time, inhaling the humidity coolly and wondering if Sam would find the note he left, until something grazed his shoulder, and he whirled around, tensing up and preparing for a fight by habit. However, the face that he saw was not hostile, even if it was a little unwelcome, and Dean unclenched his fist, allowing his fingers to wrap around the railing again as he let out a resigned sigh.

"Hey," he mumbled groggily to Sherlock, lifting one hand to rub at his bloodshot, baggy eyes. The shorter man just grunted, rocking back on his heels and mimicking Dean's pose against the railing on the balcony. "What do you want?"

"To sit on my balcony in silence," Sherlock replied crudely, not taking his eyes off of their point of focus to look the hunter in the eye. Dean growled almost inaudibly, and elbowed the detective in the ribs with petty vengeance as he got too close. In return, the victim gave a deeply offended look, as if Dean had set the building on fire and flipped a crude gesture at him.

"That was unnecessary," he hissed, and recoiled into himself. He could easily prove quite the opponent for Dean Winchester if he wanted to fight, but this was just unwarranted assault.

"So is your attitude," Dean replied cheekily, deep frown creasing his nose as he snarled back, cocky expression taunting Mr. Holmes like he was someone to pick on. 

Sherlock looked like he'd retaliate if he wasn't too full of himself to think he was above that when the sudden  _whoosh_  of the door cut him off. Dean merely jumped a bit, and cast a tired glare at Cas for appearing so suddenly. Sherlock, however, was not so lucky as to be on his guard, and jumped subtly at the arrival of a very unexpected guest. Even so, he composed himself quickly, grumbling to himself, "Just come through the front door if I don't answer," even knowing very well that he'd have done the same thing for anything he'd consider urgent.

"Cas," Dean said with a little chuckle and a cocky grin, gleeful that his friend had gotten the better of this self-righteous detective. He almost moved in for a hug to greet the other man, but stopped himself considering Sherlock's presence, and settled for an affectionate clap on the shoulder. Castiel nodded at him amiably, and glanced at his company, looking at Dean quizzically. "This is Sherlock. We're working on a case together." Castiel nodded, and reached out to shake his hand, surprising Sherlock with a strong grip.

"Castiel," he introduced, and stepped back impatiently to address Dean, looking put off by the need for introductions. "Dean, these cases-" He said with a conscious glance to Sherlock before shooing Dean inside to talk. Dean protested with a short,"hey!" but didn't do much to stop him as he was hustled back through the door. "These cases are not caused by witches," Castiel interrupted, drawing the curtain behind himself.

"What do you mean it's not witches? There are hexbags."

"They were planted."

"By who?"

"Demons," Cas replied, bright eyes still flitting about to make sure no one was listening in.

"Alright, then we have to baptize a few smokers, so what?" Dean asked, crossing his arms indignantly at being tugged away from his argument.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," Cas said, and handed him a clipping of newspaper. "The demon responsible is jumping hosts rapidly without any black smoke to signal when he does it, and devil traps do nothing to him."  
Dean sighed, and cradled his own face in his palm, rubbing his temple. "So you're tellin' me we've got Hell's Houdini on our hands?"

"Yes."

He shook his head, and glanced outside to check if Sherlock was paying attention. The curtains were blocking his way, of course. He took that as a sign that his annoying companion couldn't eavesdrop even if he wanted to- after all, Dean hadn't heard him through the glass when he'd snuck up on him.  
Demons weren't a problem. He could do demons, even if he couldn't see them, but Sherlock was an entirely different problem. "So how do we kill it?"

"Him," Castiel corrected with an amused smirk. "It's Asmodeus, ironically."

"Why is that ironic?"

Cas looked at him somewhat puzzled, and began to try to explain," Asmodeus is the main demon of lust." Dean's expression didn't change, so he continued," All of the victims were guilty of adultery, and Asmodeus is... Killing them... He's the demon of lust."

At this, Dean cracked a smile, more from Cas's inability to convey the humor of the situation and his own joke," Hypocrite."

Cas's grin, which had worn down from his explanation, returned as he nodded at the hunter. This rejuvenated Dean's lighthearted attitude for the time being, but only for a few moments before he realized that Sherlock had failed to convey information so important as a big common factor between victims. It wasn't in his nature to keep silent when he knew something that others didn't. Unless...

"Did the all-knowing Sherlock Holmes miss something?" he asked rhetorically with a cocky grin.

"No," answered an unamused snort from the door. Dean glanced quickly over Castiel's shoulder to see Sherlock standing, arms folded, in the open doorway, and he felt the blood rush from his face. He didn't know what Sherlock knew about him, but that pompous, snarky smirk he wore could mean nothing good. "I failed to mention it to you because I knew it would just make you even more insufferable. In any case, Dean Winchester, warn me before you invite over your b-"

Dean cut him off right there with a short, "Okay! Cas, I'll meet you at the hotel room." Cas nodded kind of awkwardly and made his way out the door, aiming a gracious, uncomfortable glance to the host of the flat before slipping out. Dean sighed quietly, and glared at Sherlock, mentally listing off reasons not to punch him in the throat. Sherlock shrugged at him nonchalantly, starting to say," I know how you-" before Dean cut him off.

"I  _know_  you know... what Cas means to me. But don't forget that I have dirt on you, too."

"Like what?" Sherlock scoffed, marvelling that anything he could say would be of importance. 

"John," he replied simply and smugly.

From what Dean already knew about Sherlock, the detective had a swift inner monologue in the split second it took for him to reply, "What about him?" Dean took a moment of silence to raise his expression's level of cockiness before snarking off agaIn.

"You're no straighter than I am."

Sherlock, of course, gave him an irritable glare. If everything else about the two men were conflicting, they at least had their secretiveness to share. Therefore, Dean knew the other man wouldn't dare risk exposure of any secret of his. He held out his hand cautiously as an invitation for mutual peace, and Sherlock, cornered, sighed, and shook on it. 

"Very well, Montague," he said resignedly, reviving a dry, old joke they'd shared.

"Good man, Capulet," Dean replied with a satisfied sniff, and meandered off to go sit on the couch and crack open Sam's laptop he'd done the liberty of stealing. 

 

(*)

 

Castiel leaned against the wall just outside the apartment, staring at the staircase that would take him down to the streets below. He had no idea how to get "back to the hotel". He could hail a cab, but he didn't have any money. He also didn't know where it was, so that option as well as walking were both eliminated.

Being a human was difficult, but he didn't exactly miss being an angel. That came with a lot of responsibility, which, while he could handle it, he really didn't want to. Did that make him lazy? Maybe. But nobody in heaven really cared that he'd left them for a human life, especially after he'd fixed their situation for them. "Their." What a wonderful life it was that he could consider heaven a "they" and not an "us."

 Thinking back, he probably should have asked Dean where they were before the situation became too uncomfortable. After all, he hadn't done much exploring, even though he had been here much more often than Sam or Dean.

Now all he could really think to do was sit around, observing the quaintly decorated staircase with a dull happiness in his eyes. The conversation inside had been temporarily dropped for a few moments as silence reigned, then the man who behaved, honestly, like an angel, said something inaudible, only to be cut off by Dean's shout. Cas could almost feel bad eavesdropping, but he didn't really have time to as he comprehended what Dean had said.

_"I _know_  you know... what Cas means to me."_

What he meant to Dean? A strange feeling clutched Castiel, like there were nothing but compressed air and... bugs, he supposed, in his chest. There was probably a word for that emotion. Humans had a name for every emotion- Cute, however, was the only word that came to mind. Weird. Animals were cute. Children were cute. He'd never really thought of using such an adjective to describe someone like Dean, even if he meant it in entirely different context, but it seemed right. His mood was inexplicably lifted, and he grinned subtly, deciding to go try and ask for directions to the hotel- at least he had the address. 

 


End file.
